


nothing that is not there

by ragnasok



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Consent Issues, Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Light Bondage, M/M, Magic, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Power Imbalance, Writing on the Body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 12:29:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13235766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragnasok/pseuds/ragnasok
Summary: Loki finds his way into the Grandmaster's good graces, and a lavishly gilded cage.





	nothing that is not there

**Author's Note:**

> *walks in late to the fandom with creepy GM/Loki*

The moment Loki gets a look at the Sakaar skyline, he knows where he needs to be.

He lands bruised and breathless, the rush of the fall still in his ears, and sits up blinking, looking around for any sign of Thor—or, worse, of Hela. 

There is no-one. Just rusted scrap piled up in every direction, and no sound of any commotion. (Somehow, he doubts his brother would have the sense to remain inconspicuous had he landed here.) One of the portals dotting the sky, a few hundred yards to his right, belches out what looks like a Midgardian computer, and it lands amid the trash with a crunch. 

Loki frowns up at the sky a moment longer; but nothing more comes forth.

That’s when he hears footsteps. Several sets of them, plus a grumble of unfamiliar voices approaching at a steady pace. Ignoring the faint pang he feels at finding himself alone (Disappointment? No, surely not), Loki renders himself invisible with a flick of his wrist, and waits.

The scavengers make a cursory search of the spot where he landed, prodding at the trash with their boots. One passes almost close enough to brush his shoulder, and he stills his breathing until it is gone. They’re nothing he couldn’t deal with, by the looks of them; but Loki prefers to remain out of sight until he has _some_ idea what sort of a place he’s dealing with. 

Finally, one of the scavengers lets out a sigh and says, “C’mon, let’s check out the next one over,” voice muffled through its mask.

“Did you see what came out?” asks another.

The first scavenger shrugs. “Grandmaster likes his oddities. Maybe we’ll get a price for it.”

_Grandmaster_. Certainly the title of a man who fancies himself a ruler. That’s one useful piece of information, at least. And, when the scavengers have trudged off and Loki has found himself a vantage point, he has no doubt as to where the Grandmaster will be. The tower stands twice as tall as the next-highest building, commanding views to the horizon on each side. Not that there’s much to see here—but then, maybe that’s why the Grandmaster lives so close to the sky. It’s pale blue and sunny up there. Even pleasant to look upon, if you ignore the portals spewing junk.

It certainly looks preferable to being out here. 

Loki takes one last look around at the wasteland. Nothing moves, and nobody calls his name. He turns away, and sets out in the direction of the tower.

 

\----

 

Loki is good at hiding—he’s been doing it in plain sight for the last four years, after all—and he’s good at listening. It doesn’t take him long to learn a couple more salient pieces of information.

One, he was right about where the Grandmaster lives. The tower is home to the ruler of this place, his servants, his ‘entertainment’ (a euphemism for the contenders who fight to the death in his games), and the chosen few companions with whom he surrounds himself. Or, on wilder nights, the chosen few hundred. 

Two, the Grandmaster is a hedonist. There are parties every night, and novelties delight him. He tires of them easily, however, and his companions jostle for his favour like dogs fighting over scraps.

It all sounds terribly undignified; but then so does scrambling for survival down here in the dirt. Besides which, Loki has been accused of many things, but being boring was never among them. He need only stay in the Grandmaster’s orbit long enough to find a way off this rock, or a way to claim power for himself. Surely it won’t be difficult.

The place is heavily guarded, of course, but that needn’t pose a problem. Once he’s got himself inside the tower, it shouldn’t take long to convince the Grandmaster’s coterie that he belongs there. He won’t even have to alter his shape, for nobody knows him here. No more speaking in Odin’s voice; no more catching sight of Odin’s reflection in polished surfaces. He never did get used to that, not completely, some part of him always fearing for the space of a heartbeat that he had finally been caught. It will be easier to charm the Grandmaster’s circle in his own shape, unencumbered by the baggage of his past.

If he tries very hard not to think about Thor, or about Asgard, he can even convince himself he’s looking forward to it.

 

\----

 

The tower comes alive after dark. Gaudy neons light the whole structure while crowds cluster closely around the base, buying and selling and begging and fighting. The is air thick with smells of food and unwashed bodies, and the faint miasma of something going bad that seems to pervade the whole planet.

Loki cannot wait to get out of there.

He slips into the mouth of an alley to make himself invisible once more, and then inserts himself into the steady stream of people being admitted to the lower levels of the building. After that, higher up, there is another door through which fewer people are allowed, and after that, another, and so on and so on until the air is clean and scented and music plays, and beings in fabulous, impractical outfits lounge around laughing and sipping their drinks. 

As he approaches the last door, Loki feels a faint buzz of _something_ in the air. He recognizes the feeling of passing through a magical ward, though the precise type is unfamiliar to him, and tenses, expecting to hear alarms, to see guards rush into the room and scatter in confusion.

It doesn’t happen. The guards flanking the door maintain their bored expressions, and Loki slips by them undetected.

In the room beyond, he finds his goal. The man they call the Grandmaster holds court surrounded by hangers-on, easily identifiable by the way their fawning smiles gravitate toward him—and by the solid square of a woman always a pace behind him, clearly a personal bodyguard. There’s something impish in his expression, and each time Loki looks at him, he is laughing. He wears his power lightly, which means he believes it solid. And, despite the gaudy face-paint, he’s not unattractive. Which might make certain things easier, if he’s the sort of man on whom flirtation works. Watching him, Loki thinks that he probably is.

Just then, the Grandmaster peels himself away from whatever conversation he was having, and his eyes meet Loki’s across the room.

Loki freezes. He’s still invisible, he’s sure of it, but he can’t help glancing down at himself just to check. The spell is holding firm, and when he looks back up, the Grandmaster is no longer staring at him.

Just a coincidence, then. Still, he absents himself from the room as fast as he can. The longer he hides, the more suspicious he’ll look.

It’s the work of a moment to find a quiet side corridor in which to turn visible again, and to glamour his appearance into something more appropriate to the occasion. The outfit he conjures up shows rather less skin than some of the other attendees, but there’s a little more gold than he’d usually choose, a faint dusting of something shimmery across his cheekbones. Loki checks his reflection in the closest shiny gold surface, and decides it will do. He looks like he belongs here. 

Who knows? The next part might even be fun.

 

\----

 

The Grandmaster, clearly, isn’t the sort of man to whom one just wanders up and introduces oneself. There’s power here, and not just in the conspicuous wealth or the armed guards. Now that his concentration isn’t taken up with maintaining invisibility, Loki can sense it: the pulse of some alien magic beneath the noise and the glitter, nagging at the edges of his consciousness like a half-heard song. Magic may not be what the Grandmaster calls it, but magic it undoubtedly it. It would be easy to get caught up in it, if Loki isn’t careful.

He takes a glass of something bright blue and fizzy from one of the attendants who seem to materialise with trays whenever anybody is empty-handed, and nurses it, not drinking. He’s going to need to keep his wits about him.

(They are, a small voice in the back of his head reminds him, all he has now.)

He scans the room for the most advantageous group into which to insert himself. It would be best to wait for one of the Grandmaster’s coterie to detach from the group and then draw them into conversation, but in the meantime, he shouldn’t make himself too conspicuous by remaining alone. 

Before he makes his decision, though, the Grandmaster catches his eye once more. There’s no mistaking it this time—and then, for good measure, the Grandmaster lifts his hand and waves. There’s something almost childlike in the gesture, in the delighted way his eyes crinkle at the edges.

Loki blinks in surprise, realising he’s being beckoned over. Perhaps the Grandmaster has recognised that he doesn’t belong here? But no; surely somebody who thinks himself so important doesn’t take personal charge of the guestlist. 

In any case, Loki’s been spotted now, so he does the only thing he can and goes over. He keeps his eyes demurely lowered, sneaking a brief glance that, he hopes, looks more shy than measuring, though he resists checking his reflection in the gilded mirror behind the Grandmaster’s dais. Deference isn’t a habit he’s keen to get back into, honestly, but _starstruck admirer_ is a safer look than _power-seeker_. 

“ _There_ you are!” 

Loki stops short before the dais. The Grandmaster’s smiling at him as though he’s an old friend. Is it possible he’s been mistaken for somebody else?

“I knew there was _somebody_ sneaking around in here,” the Grandmaster goes on, then, and Loki feels himself blanch. “That magic of yours, it’s just—” He breaks off and breathes in deeply, his expression that of somebody sampling a fine new wine. “—Mm, lovely. You’re new, and I like new things.”

His pleased smile doesn’t waver, and Loki wonders if he’s being toyed with. If there’s any way out of here, and if there’s even any point in fleeing, since the Grandmaster seems to have seen through his disguise as if it were so much smoke.

As if reading his mind, the Grandmaster tilts his head and says, “But that’s not all, right? You’re still—there’s something about you.” He reaches out with one hand, and some small part of Loki’s mind notices that his fingernails are painted an absurd shade of blue. The rest of him swallows down panic, drawn inexorably into the Grandmaster’s orbit until he’s close enough to touch.

The Grandmaster’s hand cups his cheek, and the touch is light, but the _power_ that brushes up against Loki’s own is something else altogether. It is vast and it is old, and for a moment Loki feels himself tumbling from the Bifrost once more, solar systems evaporating in showers of light around him as he falls— He sees himself quite insignificant, his own span fleeting as a mortal’s, as a mayfly’s, against this so vast and ancient thing—

And when he returns to himself, his glamour has been brushed aside as easily as if it were gossamer. He stands before the Grandmaster in his own clothes, hair dishevelled, dusty from the tramp through the wastes and the dirty streets outside. Despite his best effort at a disarming smile, his cheeks flush hot.

The Grandmaster regards him again, tapping one forefinger against the stripe of blue on his chin, still apparently dissatisfied. “No, no,” he says, half to himself. “That isn’t it either. Don’t suppose you’d do me a favour and just— You know what, never mind.”

The same warm touch of his hand, almost gentle. Loki doesn’t even think to back away until it’s too late. The same touch of his magic, vast and shadowy, pressing in at the sides of Loki’s mind, making the base of his skull ache. It could split him open like ripe fruit, he thinks, right here amid the gilt and the clinking of glasses, and he could not do a thing to stop it.

Terror would be the sane response. Perhaps some part of Loki’s mind is still broken, because his heart beats so hard he can feel it in his throat, and still he does not run.

The room is suddenly too hot, the air stifling. Has the Grandmaster’s touch poisoned him? It’s not beyond the realm of possibility—

Then Loki catches sight of his reflection in the glass, a flash of icy blue amid the neon and gold.

He swallows hard, one hand flying to his face independently of his volition. The reflection moves too, if he needed confirmation, and his fingertips find the thin, raised ridges of a Jötunn’s markings. For a moment, he is actually speechless. The Grandmaster cocks his head and sits back on his couch, apparently pleased with his handiwork.

“What have you done to me?” It slips out, slightly panicked, ruining his careful mask of deference. Not that the Grandmaster seems to notice; he just gives an airy wave.

“Just taking a closer look.” He laughs. “Sneaking in here like that—wait, you weren’t actually expecting _not_ to be noticed, were you?” He gestures around at—well, at all of it, all the glitter and the pulsing lights. “That’s kind of missing the point.”

Loki gathers himself. “No,” he manages, keeping his eyes from the mirror and masking his discomfort with a half-smile. “No, I wasn’t expecting that. I’d heard you were powerful, but—” He trails off, sounding suitably impressed. He doesn’t have to fake it.

“It’s fine, it’s fine. This is all new to you, right? You’ll figure it out.” The Grandmaster’s smile is indulgent, unworried. He’s either certain that nothing can touch him, or certifiably insane. Maybe both.

“You think so?” Still playing the wide-eyed hopeful, but it works. Or, at least, it doesn’t get him thrown out or killed, though the bodyguard is looking at him as if she’d like to do both those things.

“No doubt, no doubt.” The Grandmaster is still smiling. “Just, uh, next time, don’t show up without an invitation. Right? Of course you won’t.”

“An invitation?” Well, that sounds hopeful. “How will you know where to find me?”

The Grandmaster claps his hands. “Topaz!” The bodyguard takes a step forward, still eyeing Loki like something dragged in from the trash heaps outside. “Topaz, have somebody find our new friend a room, hm? Something nice. Well, they’re all nice. Anyway.” He turns his grin back on Loki. “See you later, Blue.”

Loki bristles—at both nickname and dismissal—but does as he’s bid. The hold of the Grandmaster’s magic on him loosens, and he shifts back to his customary form with relief, breathing easier once he leaves the room. Topaz gives a derisive snort.

He ignores it, for now. He’ll find some way to make her life unpleasant later, once he’s established himself more thoroughly here.

 

\----

 

The room is comfortable; the waiting isn’t. 

There’s a big, soft bed, a tub big enough to hold three people, and enough perfumed soaps and oils to return him to a presentable state, even if he also ends up smelling like a confectioner’s shop. Smiling attendants appear with food at regular intervals, exotic fruits and pastries and some pale, effervescent wine that Loki suspects will be far stronger than it tastes. 

Everything in this place is a confection, nothing a necessity. Loki should probably be enjoying that more than he is.

Now that he knows it’s there, he feels the Grandmaster’s magic at every moment, humming through the tower, vibrating in the air he breathes. It keeps him on edge, pacing before the wide window as he waits to be summoned once more, stopping before the mirror at intervals more frequent than he would like, to reassure himself that he still wears his chosen skin.

No invitation is forthcoming, and when dawn begins to creep over the horizon, Loki gives up. He pours himself a glass of the too-sweet wine and finds that it takes the edge off the vibration of magic in the air. It has the added bonus of keeping him from wondering too hard what has become of his brother. So he has another, and another, and does not remember falling asleep.

 

\----

 

It’s early evening when he wakes. There’s a tray with breakfast on the low table near the bed, a mug of something, still steaming, that tastes dark and bittersweet and jolts his wine-fogged brain back to normal awareness.

He shouldn’t have slept through the intrusion. Clearly he was right about the wine.

A folded rectangle of cloth sits to one side of the tray, and atop it, a little white envelope. His invitation.

_Wear something nice_ , reads the card inside, and—not without trepidation—Loki shakes out the outfit left for him. To his relief, it’s just a robe, neither as scanty nor as impractical as some of those in evidence at the party last night—though the whole thing seems designed to come off easily with the pull of a tie. Not too different to what the Grandmaster himself was wearing, really. Less garish, though; a deep, shimmery red. Thor’s colour, Loki thinks sourly, not his. 

He’s been doing well at not speculating on his brother’s likely fate, and he doesn’t intend to start now. Carefully, he puts the whole thing from his mind once more and dresses. 

The colour doesn’t look _bad_ on him, the red standing out like blood on snow against his pale skin. Loki allows himself a moment’s vanity before the mirror. After four years wearing Odin’s face, seeing his own eyes look back at him is an unexpected luxury.

Not one he gets to dwell on for long. There’s a knock at his door, and soon he’s being escorted back up to the floor where he met the Grandmaster last night by an attendant dressed mostly in gold paint.

The room is warm, the controlled—thankfully scented—breeze whispering against his skin through the light robe. Though the sun is barely below the horizon, there are figures draped across the furniture, drinking, laughing, some already disrobing. Apparently it’s _that_ kind of party, and apparently it’s always party time on Sakaar. 

Not that either of those things is a surprise. The Grandmaster hardly seems the sort of being to give much thought to propriety, or to do a day’s work before he allows himself his pleasure. Both qualities that could make him usefully susceptible to distraction, in time.

As though in response to the thought, the main door swings open and the Grandmaster breezes in, the omnipresent Topaz at his elbow, claps his hands together and addresses the room:

“Welcome, welcome! Hope you’re all enjoying my little soiree… Don’t be shy, kick back, grab a drink, make yourself at home—” He breaks off, shooting a glance at one small knot of entwined bodies near the entrance. “Oh, wow, I see you’ve already made yourselves—well, the more the merrier, that’s what I always say.” Then he looks at Topaz. “I do say that, right?”

Perhaps wisely, she says nothing. 

“This music, though,” he goes on, frowning at nobody in particular. “Something a bit more—more uptempo, huh? Don’t want all my friends thinking they’re at a funeral.” On cue, the unobtrusive background music gives way to a pulsing beat and a sugar-rush of electronic noise that, Loki suspects, is going to give him a headache very quickly. “And there are so many of you here tonight! Old friends, new friends…” Across the room, his eyes land on Loki, and he beckons. “New friends,” he repeats.

His sunnily deranged grin wavers as Loki approaches, though, and Loki feels a twinge of apprehension. The Grandmaster’s clearly volatile. Who knows what might offend him? And who knows what he might do when offended?

But the Grandmaster only tilts his head to look Loki over. Unaccustomed to this kind of scrutiny, Loki forces himself not to stare back, or to tug at the sleeves of his robe in irritation.

“Thank you for the invitation,” he murmurs, instead. “You’re too kind.”

“Right? I _am_ kind.” The Grandmaster’s hand cups his cheek, then, and the touch startles Loki into raising his eyes. “But I thought I asked you to wear something nice.” 

Loki blinks, casting an involuntary glance down at himself once more. Has he missed something—?

The Grandmaster leans in, the smile crinkling the corners of his eyes once more. “You don’t have to hide here, you know,” he says, in a tone that sounds like it’s meant to be reassuring, and his power hums in the air. Loki realises, just in time, what he intends.

He takes a step back, raising his hands in self-defence before he thinks to quell the instinct. The Grandmaster lifts an eyebrow.

Loki will not explain. He’s been exposed enough here already. Instead he covers his distaste with a laugh; says, “You appreciate unusual things, then?”

That’s all he needs to be, for now. A diversion, exotic enough to be kept around until he has his claws in, or until he finds a way off this planet. This time, at least, the change will come at his own hand and not the Grandmaster’s.

He closes his eyes and concentrates hard, thinking back to the moment he first saw himself change, on Jotunheim. How the cold rippled through him, and at the same time, the sense that it had always been there, that this was simply the rending of a veil. How his whole being had rebelled at the thought.

He cannot afford to rebel now. Loki tugs at the threads of his magic, and the cold floods out from his core. 

“Oh,” breathes the Grandmaster, soft and satisfied. “Yeah. I appreciate that.”

Loki starts, blinking his eyes open, as the Grandmaster takes his hand. His touch feels so _warm_ like this, chasing the edge of discomfort, and he runs his thumb along one of the markings that cross the back of Loki’s hand. The touch is gentle, almost reverent, but Loki finds himself surprised by the intensity with which he feels it, breath catching in his throat.

The Grandmaster chuckles. “Hey, you know what?” he says. “I think you’re gonna appreciate it, too.”

 

\----

 

The Grandmaster leads him over to a couch, where drinks appear as quickly as they can be drunk, and attendants and fluttering admirers surround them. The latter do all they can to get close to the Grandmaster, and preening and letting out peals of exaggerated laughter. Apparently, Loki’s proximity to him has made him an object of interest, too, because he finds eyelashes batted in his direction, and he’s prodded with endless questions about who he is and how he got here. They seem to assume he has some kind of power here, which is at least a little amusing, since he’s surely the newest of them all. 

Perhaps that means power, on Sakaar. Or perhaps nobody knows better than anybody else how things work here.

Loki keeps in the parts of his story that make for entertaining anecdotes, edits out the emotion, and fictionalises the rest. Apparently it’s the right tactic. It keeps him at the centre of the conversation, the Grandmaster’s arm occasionally finding its way around his shoulders, a hand coming to rest on his knee, the touch sending a jolt of heat through him even through his clothing. He feels a little like a curiosity being exhibited; but there are far worse places to be.

The night wears on, more drinks are consumed, and the group around them thins out, bodies sinking down onto couches and floor cushions in varying entanglements of limbs. The same thing is happening all around the room—and when Loki turns back to the Grandmaster, he’s sitting close enough that Loki can feel the heat coming off his skin, looking right into his eyes.

Loki swallows.

It’s not that he wasn’t expecting this. It is part of the plan. It’s just that he’s never taken a lover he couldn’t outwit or anticipate, and here, he’s not so sure of his ability to do either. He manages not to shift uncomfortably under the Grandmaster’s gaze, but it’s an effort.

“Is this how you spend every night?” he asks, as lightly as he can. Surely the Grandmaster must leave his tower occasionally—head down to the arena below, leaving his chambers unattended. There must be something in this place Loki can use, if he just gets the chance to sneak in alone. Information, access to a ship, _something_.

The Grandmaster laughs and takes his hand again. “Hey, it passes the time.” His free hand moves in a slow caress, the pads of his fingers tracing the markings on Loki’s wrists, creeping up beneath the silky sleeves of his robe. “And it’d be rude of me not to get to know my new friend, right?”

Each touch sets Loki’s pulse racing. He didn’t know he would be so sensitive in this form. It’s hard to concentrate, to steer the conversation back in the direction he intends.

“It would,” he tries. “And I still know so little about you.”

“Don’t worry.” The Grandmaster draws him in closer. “We’ve got all the time in the world. Like, literally. I own this world, so I own all the time in it.” He smiles brightly. “Isn’t that great?”

“Wonderful,” Loki agrees, and Grandmaster cups his cheek and pulls him into a kiss that burns like a brand.

It’s playful, not forceful, almost a tease. Before Loki quite knows what he’s doing, he’s kissing back, his hands seeking the Grandmaster’s warmth of their own volition. He’d thought to find himself reluctant, but like this it’s easy to lose awareness of what’s going on around him, to lose whatever tenuous hold he had on the situation. He would wonder if he’d been enchanted, except that he’s felt the sharp edge of the Grandmaster’s magic, and this is different. It’s like something loosening up inside of him, like he’s starting to melt around the edges, a strange sensation like a shiver of heat passing through him each time the Grandmasters fingers trace one of his markings.

His body is turning traitor. Punishment, perhaps, for having kept the secret of his birth out of sight and mind so long.

Loki pushes away the thought. It is not he who deserves the punishment; not for that. Those who do are gone, and remembering them will do him no good now.

The Grandmaster breaks the kiss, eyeing him closely. “You know,” he says, “I know it’s crazy because you came to me, right? You told me you wanted to be here. But I could swear you’re distracted.”

Loki honestly isn’t sure if it’s a threat or an observation. He blinks and wets his lips. “It’s nothing important,” he says, leaning back in so his cheek brushes the Grandmaster’s own. “Nothing I’d rather think about than—this.” His voice comes out sounding breathy, and it’s not entirely a part of the performance.

He turns his head so that their lips brush once more. The Grandmaster gives a thoughtful hum, but then claims his mouth in another kiss, apparently satisfied with his answer. Or so secure in his power that he doesn’t worry about being lied to.

His hands are everywhere, finding an opening in the robe Loki wears (designed, no doubt, for easy access) and sneaking inside to thumb over the hard nub of a nipple, down to trace the markings that run along his thighs. _That_ makes his cock twitch with interest, and the Grandmaster makes a pleased sound and gives him a slow, lazy stroke. Then another, and another, until Loki is trembling against him, practically sitting in his lap now, hips jerking up helplessly into his touch.

Whatever grip he had on himself is slipping fast. But this seems to be working—to be pleasing the Grandmaster, at least. Perhaps he need only go with it, surrender for now in order to gain what he seeks later.

It’s not as though he has many other viable options. And—he thinks, as the Grandmaster’s fingers find their way down and back, so impossibly warm, teasing the sensitive skin behind his balls—there are many less pleasant ways to gain favour.

He remembers himself just as the Grandmaster’s fingertip finds its mark, tracing a gentle ring around the rim of his hole.

Loki bites off a moan and blinks until the Grandmaster’s face comes back into focus. _He_ still looks untouched, his amused little smile remaining in place. If he were in his own form, Loki would surely blush with shame at his own discomposure.

“Don’t we—” he gets out “—need something?” Surely this place must be stocked with a dozen different varieties of lubricant. “To… ease the way?”

The Grandmaster gives a short, surprised laugh, and for a brief moment Loki is seized with the unpleasant thought that he was a fool to think this creature would care anything for his comfort. He seems to indulge his whims thoughtlessly in every other way, after all.

But the Grandmaster leans back, looking at Loki with something akin to wonder. The questing hand has moved to his hip, caressing, almost reassuring.

“Wait,” says the Grandmaster, “seriously? You’ve really never—?”

Loki stares back at him in confusion. “What?”

The fingers are back, then, the tip of one pressing up and into him. Loki starts, anticipating pain—but, to his surprise, his body gives way easily to the intrusion, open and _wet_. Oh, and it feels good. A gasp of pleasure punches its way out of him, and it’s all he can do not to push back shamelessly onto the Grandmaster’s fingers, right here in front of all the other guests.

With his free hand, the Grandmaster makes a vague up-and-down gesture. “Wow. I mean, really, wow. Nobody’s ever, you know, fucked you like this before?” His fingers press in deeper, crooking forward and finding a spot that sends a bolt of pleasure shooting up Loki’s spine. “That is just, wow, that is really special.” And he does look positively delighted, for all that it’s the delight of a child with a new toy and not that of an enraptured suitor.

It’s hard to think like this, to formulate a plan, but Loki is nothing if not used to working with challenging circumstances.

At least, he was. It’s been a while.

He braces himself, hands against the Grandmaster’s chest, and takes a steadying breath. When he meets the Grandmaster’s eyes again he bites his lip, approximating shyness as best he can.

“I… suppose it is,” he allows, a little shakily, and leans in closer, lowering his voice. “Actually, hardly anyone’s seen me like this before.”

The Grandmaster’s eyes widen. “Oh, that’s sad.” 

The less said on that score, the better, so Loki doesn’t respond directly, just murmurs, “That’s why I thought… Well.” He glances down and away, and waits for the Grandmaster to touch his cheek and turn his face back. 

“I’m listening,” he says.

Loki casts one more glance around the room, at the lights and the gold-painted attendants, the bodies writhing and conjoining on floor cushions and furniture. “I’d thought perhaps it could be… just for you.” He times his hesitation perfectly, which under the circumstances is something of an achievement. “But whatever you want, of course.”

A chance to look at the Grandmaster’s private quarters might give him something more useful than he’s found so far. And if he’s honest with himself, which he occasionally is, he would prefer to do this somewhere less embarrassingly public.

“Huh, I did _not_ have you figured for shy.” The Grandmaster regards him curiously. But then those questing fingers slide out of him—he only shivers a little at the loss—and he’s being pulled to his feet, the Grandmaster’s arm threaded through his own. For a second he’s shamefully glad of the support, lightheaded enough that standing makes him hold on tightly.

“Let’s get out of here.” The Grandmaster looks at him sideways, an intimate, conspiratorial look. “I’m going to take my time with you.”

 

\----

 

The private room to which the Grandmaster leads him is dimly-lit, and—to Loki’s disappointment, if not his surprise—clearly designed for pleasure and not for business. A bed big enough for at least four occupies most of the room, surrounded by sheer drapes and other, more esoteric, accoutrements. A light blinks atop a nightstand, and Loki glances over at it. A transparent slate with a map upon it. 

Halfway across, the map just seems to stop, as though its author has reached the end of everything and given up. A great shadowy shape floats along the edge, and inside, the light flashes like a tracking marker.

A map of the edge of the Universe. So, there is more to the Grandmaster than meets the eye. If only Loki knew what.

Still, that settles it. Necessity brought him here, but now curiosity flares bright within him—something of which he’s felt precious little since taking Odin’s throne. He must remain, at least until he has enough pieces to see the full picture.

The Grandmaster turns him bodily, so the back of his knees meet the edge of the bed. (Stronger than he looks; something else to file away for future reference.) If he’s noticed Loki’s distraction, he doesn’t comment on it, just tugs at the silken ties holding Loki’s robe together and says, “So, uh, where were we?”

Loki smiles at him. A little bolder, this time: it will help if the Grandmaster thinks him smitten. “About here, I think,” he murmurs, and presses their lips together once more.

The robe falls from his shoulders and flutters to the floor, and the Grandmaster’s hands skim up the sides of his ribcage, the light touch almost tickling. Loki doesn’t stop himself from laughing, just wraps his arms around the Grandmaster’s waist and deepens the kiss.

It’s searing, dizzying—for a moment. Then the Grandmaster steps back out of the circle of Loki’s arms and tilts his head, regarding him with that same curious wonder. Like this it’s impossible not to be aware that he’s naked, cock standing at half-mast, while the Grandmaster hasn’t shed a stitch of clothing.

Before he can grow too uncomfortable, though, the Grandmaster winks at him. “Why don’t you, ah, go ahead and make yourself comfortable? I just gotta—now, what am I looking for?”

As though in response to his words, a hitherto-invisible drawer slides out of the wall. While the Grandmaster rummages, Loki follows his suggestion and reclines on the bed. For one thing, it gives him a closer view of that strange map without it being too obvious that he’s looking.

From here, he can see that the blinking light is a letter ‘T’. _Target_ , he wonders? _Traitor_?

“Distracted again.” The Grandmaster’s standing at the foot of the bed now, some small object clutched in his hand. The gold robe he wore atop his own clothes has joined Loki’s on the floor, revealing tanned shoulders, though he’s still considerably less naked than Loki. “You know, I think one day I wanna take a look inside that pretty blue head of yours. Have you ever taken dreamroot?” He shakes his head, then. “Anyway, that’s for another time. Right now…” 

He leaves the sentence hanging and climbs onto the bed. When Loki sits up to kiss him, the Grandmaster stops him with a hand on his bare chest. 

“Hold on,” he says, and lifts up the small object he’s holding. It’s a pot of… paint. Gold paint. As he watches, the Grandmaster dips his thumb into the pot, then reaches up and drags a stripe of gold across Loki’s lower lip.

The touch is careful and tingles faintly against his skin. There’s something in the paint, definitely—some slight hint of the Grandmaster’s sharp-edged magic. It’s… not unpleasant, actually.

The Grandmaster shoots him an encouraging smile. “Totally non-toxic, nothing to worry about. It’s gonna look so good on you, though, right?”

As kinks go, this seems harmless enough. The thought of spending all night in this form, being painted and pored over like some exotic object, is still discomfiting—but Loki resigned himself to a little discomfort when he changed, didn’t he? And besides, there are compensations.

Like the way the Grandmaster settles between his thighs and lowers him to the mattress, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot below his ear and a dozen more along the line of his neck. The heat-trails of his hands—on Loki’s thighs, his torso, sneaking back to cup his arse. It’s still so hot, dizzying, and Loki clutches at the bars of the bed to steady himself.

Something moves back there. It’s soft enough that he takes a moment to register it, and before he can sit upright or pull his hands away, there’s something silky wrapped around his wrists, securing him to the bed. Loki’s eyes fly open, though at least he retains the presence of mind not to struggle. 

He glances back as best he can. The ropes are deep red, the same colour as the robe the Grandmaster had him wear, standing out bloodily against the ice-blue of his Jötunn skin.

The Grandmaster lifts his head to smile at him. “You don’t mind, right? You don’t seem like the type to mind. And, you know, you gotta keep still for this. Don’t wanna mess things up.” He reaches for the pot of gold paint again, this time dipping his forefinger into it and swiping another line of gold along Loki’s cheekbone, tracing one of the lines there. It feels intimate, sending a shiver of sensation down his spine.

Loki takes a steadying breath and wills his heart to stop hammering in his chest. He _wasn’t_ the type to mind, once—but in recent years, anything that feels like restraint has tended to ruin the mood.

That’s not the point of this, though. He needs the Grandmaster to like him, and it’s obvious that the Grandmaster is not a man accustomed to compromise. Give him what he wants.

Loki manages a smile, though he suspects it’s more shaky than seductive. “I didn’t take you for an artist.” 

The Grandmaster paints a matching line of gold across his other cheek. “Hey, I’m just having fun. But you’re a pretty picture.”

He goes back to his painting, apparently engrossed, and doesn’t seem to require an answer. He draws lines of gold along each marking on Loki’s skin, up to his hairline, down his throat and across his shoulders and the muscles of his chest, and each touch is a caress, teasing and burning at the same time. It’s no less distracting than it was earlier.

Which might be for the best. If Loki just relaxes, thinks about something else, he can almost forget about the ropes around his wrists. So he tries, closing his eyes and concentrating on the feeling of it, the slow burn of desire building with each touch as the Grandmaster’s hands move lower.

He’s hard now, cock flush against the flat of his stomach, but the Grandmaster studiously avoids touching it, hands skating close and then dipping away to trace the lines that run down his thighs. Loki finds himself trying to follow the patterns—for after all, he doesn’t truly know them. He’s taken this form so rarely, and never stopped to study it.

As the wet, hot throb of need between his legs reminds him, that may have been a mistake. 

The Grandmaster never stops touching him. The slow, teasing explorations of his fingertips, and the pleasant sting of the enchanted paint he leaves behind—between those things, Loki finds himself coming undone, breathless, hands trembling in his bonds as his neglected cock strains against his belly.

He hopes that the Grandmaster won’t wait for him to beg.

Perhaps this will never end. Surely the Grandmaster has traced every line on his body by now, but he doesn’t stop, drawing new shapes now, as though he is writing in some alien tongue. Loki opens his eyes to take a look, but he can’t make out the design, and anyway, he is too shaky with need to try very hard.

The Grandmaster catches his eye and winks.

Then he paints a single stripe of gold up the underside of Loki’s cock.

Loki almost arches off the bed, unable to stifle his moan. The Grandmaster reaches down to pet his hip—not painting, this time, only caressing—and takes a moment to admire his handiwork.

“That is—that’s just lovely,” he says, as much to himself as to Loki. “I think I’ll keep you.”

That sounds like a good sign, for now at least. He gazes a moment longer, soft and admiring, and Loki almost expects that he’ll stop to take a picture. Were Loki in his own form, he might even be flattered to be so looked upon.

At last—at last—the Grandmaster sets down his pot of paint. He sheds the rest of his clothes in an easy motion, and then he’s on the bed, his body pressed warm along Loki’s own. This time, he does lean in to brush a kiss to Loki’s mouth, and when he pulls away, there’s no gold smeared on his lips. The paint is dried already, and Loki thinks distantly that it’s going to be a real pain to wash off.

For another moment, the Grandmaster only looks at him. Then he reaches down and wraps his hand around Loki’s cock, stroking him lazily. It’s all Loki can do not to cry out, thrusting up helplessly into the touch. Which is both blessed relief and nowhere near enough, but the Grandmaster keeps his touches light, running his thumb over the tip and using the pre-come already dripping there to ease the way. Vaguely, it occurs to Loki that there’s more than when he’s in his usual form, though he’s truly in no state to concentrate, desperate for more touch, more friction, more everything.

There’s a sweet ache of need deep inside him, and when the Grandmaster shifts between his legs he parts them shamelessly. The feeling of slickness there is strange, and some small part of Loki’s brain insists he should be disgusted by it, but then the Grandmaster lets go of his cock and slides two fingers back there to press inside—easy, Loki’s body offering no resistance—and _should_ fades into white noise. The heat and the stretch keep him gasping, and then there’s an obscene, wet sound as the Grandmaster gathers up some of that slickness to coat his cock, and finally, finally, pushes inside.

A moan of relief escapes Loki before he can stop it, and the Grandmaster gives him another of those conspiratorial grins. “Calm down, Blue,” he says. “We’re not there yet, right?” There isn’t even a drop of sweat to mar his facepaint.

This time, Loki can’t even find it in him to take offence at that awful nickname.

The Grandmaster presses in balls-deep, then pulls out by inches, the blunt head of his cock catching on Loki’s hole. At that, a pulse of pleasure sings through Loki’s every nerve, his bound hands clutching at empty air. 

“More,” he hears his voice say, but it’s breathier than he expects, less a demand than a plea.

The Grandmaster only stills and chuckles. “Yeah, I’m always in favour of more,” he says. “Seriously, I mean—well, you’ll see. Just, uh. Not yet.”

When he starts to move again, it’s with that same maddening slowness, pausing every moment to trace a fingertip down one of the golden lines he painted earlier or to gaze hungrily at the place their bodies join together, the way that Loki is stretched around his cock. And Loki cannot touch him, cannot reach down to grasp his arse and urge him faster, as he usually would with a too-patient lover. He can only lie there and take it, and take it, and try to hold onto some little scrap of himself.

It’s a pointless endeavour. He’s undone, trembling, spread open and desperate, vaguely aware of a small, needy sound coming from somewhere, and yet more vaguely aware that the somewhere is him. By the time the Grandmaster tires of his slow teasing and begins to fuck him in earnest, it’s all he can do not to sob in gratitude.

And it’s _still_ not enough, not quite. It’s not that the Grandmaster is too gentle: grown bored with taking his time, he takes his pleasure without hesitation, just the right kind of rough, pressing in deep enough that his cock finds that sweet spot inside of Loki on each stroke. Ordinarily, it would be enough.

Only, for _this_ body, it isn’t. Loki’s legs wrap around the Grandmaster without his permission, seeking to get him deeper; he arches up off the bed in a supplication that will humiliate him when he remembers it, later. (At least, he thinks distantly, he will be able to say he was not himself at the time.) 

“Hey, hey.” The Grandmaster still sounds infernally cheerful, but there’s something soothing in his voice right now. “It’s okay,” he promises, “I got you,” and then his hand sneaks back and down, and those two fingers are teasing at Loki’s rim before pressing back inside, alongside his cock.

It’s so _much_ , the stretch of it hurts and he can’t take it, and it’s exactly what he needs. A couple more ungentle thrusts and he’s coming, hole pulsing wetly around the Grandmaster’s cock, a rush of seed spilling over the gold markings on his belly.

He feels dazed afterward, eyes half-closed, lying ragdoll-limp as the Grandmaster fucks into him a handful more times and finally grips his hips hard and comes inside of him with a small sound of satisfaction. The heat of his spend draws a single, final twitch of pleasure from Loki, though that’s not enough to get him to open his eyes.

The Grandmaster doesn’t collapse on top of him—more, he suspects, out of the desire to avoid messing himself than out of concern for Loki’s comfort—but he’s careful when he pulls out, petting Loki’s flank as he does so, and finally reaching for a warm cloth to clean them both off. 

Loki blinks his eyes open, at last, and notices that the gold paint hasn’t faded one bit. 

“See?” the Grandmaster is saying, his boyish grin still in place. “You just need to trust me.”

“Mmm,” is all that Loki manages.

The Grandmaster gives him a gentle swat on the thigh, and climbs up the bed again. For a moment, Loki thinks he’s about to be kissed—or, better, untied—but then the ceiling does something strange, and the Grandmaster sits up again, distracted. There’s a window above the bed where there wasn’t one before, the strange sky of Sakaar spread out above them, a shimmering blanket of stars above the scattered portals.

“Oh,” the Grandmaster says. “Oh, that’s great. Hadn’t, ah, hadn’t realised it had gotten so late. You’ve kept me busy, Blue.” Another of those winks. “But here, this is nice, just lie back and enjoy the view.”

_It’s not as if I can do anything else_ , Loki wants to say, but then the sky explodes in colours and he loses his thread.

Fireworks, every gaudy colour of the universe, blossoming across the whole of the sky. 

When Loki glances away, though, he finds the Grandmaster looking at him and not at the display. The gold on his skin reflects the sky in endless ripples of colour.

 

\----

 

He’s not sure what time it is when he wakes. The window in the ceiling has vanished again, and the artificial light in the Grandmaster’s chambers gives little away. 

His hands have been untied. That’s something. Loki sits and stretches, glancing around the empty room. The blinking map on the nightstand has disappeared, but he supposes that was to be expected.

He spends a moment listening to the silence. It’s the kind that speaks of empty rooms, but Loki pulls the red robe around him anyway before setting foot outside the bedchamber. Glancing down, he’s surprised by the flash of gold against his still-blue skin. He hasn’t returned to his usual form while sleeping. That’s—unusual.

He quells his trepidation as best he can. The wards around this place, perhaps, damping down his own magic. 

The Grandmaster may not be happy to see him change back, but awake and lucid—and sore and sticky, with last night’s lustful haze a distant memory—Loki itches to shed this form and return to his own. He breathes in deeply, focuses, reaches for the glowing threads of his power, and—

And nothing. The change doesn’t come. His skin remains stubbornly blue.

For a moment he stands frozen in shock in the bedroom doorway. Then realisation comes to him, and he claws frantically at the front of his robe. The designs the Grandmaster painted on him last night; the strange power mixed into the gold, hot and cold and alive against his skin. Loki throws open doors until he finds a bathroom with a mirror.

Yes: there are symbols painted on his chest, in the gaps between his markings. The language isn’t one he knows, though the writing suggests vague, primitive resemblances to a few that he does. It’s _old_ , he decides, perhaps old enough to be the ancestor of every tongue in the Nine Realms and more besides.

Not that that matters now. Loki does not know the spell, and he does not know how to break it.

In desperation, he scratches dryly at the paint with his fingernails. It doesn’t budge.

After an hour in the Grandmaster’s bathtub, with hot water and brushes and every soap and unguent in the place, the situation is much the same. Except that his skin feels raw, purpled with scrubbing, and his shock is gone, replaced first by vicious anger—there are a few broken tiles to attest to that—and then by a thin, panicked feeling, a ghost of what he felt when Hela threw him from the Bifrost.

He swallows it down. There is no need for despair; not yet. Loki will do what he always does. He’ll bide his time, and adapt, and survive.

Still, when he finally leaves the bathroom and finds another bundle of cloth—gold, this time—folded on the Grandmaster’s bed, another invitation sitting atop it, he closes his eyes and takes a long, shuddering breath before reaching for the envelope.

When he opens them, he realises the window in the ceiling has reappeared. Above him, the sky of Sakaar shines gold and blue.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://ragnasok.tumblr.com)


End file.
